when lights glimmer like diamonds
by kimchiwon
Summary: It is a world where appearances and reputations are what makes a wizard, and nothing is ever as it seems. Or so it is to Hadrian. AU, slash. HP/TMR.
1. prologue H a d r i a n

Summary: It is a world where appearances and reputations are what makes a wizard, and nothing is ever as it seems. Or so it is to Hadrian.

Main Pairing: HPTMR

Warnings: Mature content, sloppy French [ fear not though; I will scarcely use the language ], slash, AU.

Pretend you see a disclaimer here.

*Note that the characters are speaking in French here, despite the inserts of French phrases and such. I will alert you when they change languages [ maybe in the latter chapters ].

* * *

**when lights glimmer like diamonds**

prologue _**Hadrian**_

_"It is only shallow people who do not judge by appearances." — _Oscar Wilde

* * *

**※**

Morning light cuts the darkness in the room by a sliver through the velvet curtains. A slight rustle in satin sheets interrupts the peaceful silence of the atmosphere, indicating the awakening of a dark-haired beauty.

Hadrian opens his eyes, blinking blearily up at the canopy of his bed, before slowly pushing himself up to a sitting position. A yawn escapes his lips, muffled by a pale hand by enforced habit; and he threads slim fingers into fine black hair. He pulls himself out of bed, almost reluctantly, but the nagging importance of the day commands his early rise.

Hadrian moves through his morning ablutions gracefully, not belying the usual sluggish motions of a lesser man in the morning. It was almost with a lazy eye that he chooses his outfit for the day, and yet he still ends up looking immaculately splendid in a navy blue tunic and long gray slacks.

He greets his father and mother pleasantly when he reaches the breezy veranda in which his parents favor to have breakfast in, and sits in a white chair to the right of his father. It was with a resigned expectance that he nonchalantly waits for his mother to speak, all the while placing toast and a splatter of eggs on his plate.

"Hadrian," Mariánne Anaïs Leblanc-Favre starts, a beautiful smile curving her lips, "your Pâpa and I expect you to be a proper host this evening. Do refrain from letting your friends monopolize your attention, _est-ce que vous me comprenez_?" she continues, a warning tone lacing her voice.

"_Je sais_," Hadrian replies complacently, but the slight smirk that hitches up the corner of his mouth contradicts his answer. At this, his mother sighs lightly in fond exasperation, while his father shakes his head in amusement.

"Your cousin Draco will be staying for a few days," Alec Favre says. He pauses to take a sip of his morning tea-medicine, before fixing an amused stare on his frowning son. "Try not to hex the boy while we're gone. It wouldn't do to find him missing an eye or two when Lucius and I return from our trip."

"I won't make any promises," Hadrian returns cheekily, although there is a slight grimace in his face at the thought of the blond, self-involved brat.

He was related to the British Malfoys by virtue of his maternal side of the family. Hadrian's mother, Mariánne, is the daughter of Draco's grandfather's sister, Viví Malfoy, who had married Marcus Leblanc, his grandfather. Hadrian detests his connection with the British blond teenager, if only for the blond's attitude, and thanks the gods for at least making it so that he takes after his father more than his mother in looks.

Hadrian's English name had come up as a whim for his parents; they had both decided to acknowledge their meagre, diluted British blood [his father had a few British ancestors who had married into the French Pureblood family of the Favres] by naming their son in such a way. Thus, they had chosen the more regal Hadrian over the common name Harry.

The rest of the breakfast remained lovely, until his mother leaves to rouse the house elves into preparing the manor for the ball later in the evening, and his father takes off to the French Ministry to drop important papers he had worked on in his home office.

Hadrian lets out a long sigh at the thought of the evening ball, heavily dreading the frivolities it surely entails. He rubs the bridge of his straight nose, before turning at the sudden '_Pop!_' towards his left. He wearily eyes the house elf which had appeared. The creature was clad in a toga held up by a golden rope, fidgeting slightly before straightening its frail body up and bowing at the waist.

"Master Hadrian's clothing had arrived for the final fitting. May Lensy be of assistance to young Master?" the elf says, the stuttering of the normal house elf gone from years of training.

"I'll be fine, thank you," Hadrian says, almost smiling at the excited floppy ear-twitch the elf gave at his expression of gratitude. "I will be calling you if Mistress Beaumont will still need to adjust my dress robes. You may go."

The house elf pops away. Hadrian was left to ponder random, fleeting thoughts by the veranda, and he momentarily longs for the school year, which is still a fortnight away. After a while, he goes inside towards his rooms. He has a long day ahead of him, and damn if he didn't look at least wonderful for the celebration that night.

* * *

French Translations:

…_est-ce que vous me comprenez_? Do you understand?

_Je sais._ Yes, I do.


	2. prologue T o m

Summary: It is a world where appearances and reputations are what makes a wizard, and nothing is ever as it seems. Or so it is to Hadrian.

Main Pairing: HPTMR

Warnings: Mature content, relatively short chapters, present tense form of writing, **Different!Tom Riddle**, slash, AU.

Pretend you see a disclaimer here.

*Treat this as prologue part II; the real story begins next chapter. And also: a penny for my lovely readers' thoughts? As much as I appreciate the alerts and favourites, I would love to hear what you really think about this budding plot. An insight for each chapter squeezed out to get over my writer's block. Especially now that—

—I've said too much. Read and find out.

* * *

**when lights glimmer like diamonds**

prologue _**T o m**_

"_I find it an effort to keep up appearances." — Dusty Springfield_

* * *

※

Worn leather shoes scuffle on the cobblestone floors of the library. Dull, black robes drape over a tall, lanky form, whose owner's face was buried in a large tome. The young man's arms cradle the massive book to his chest, belying unseen strength in his thin arms, as he blindly walks towards a dusty desk at the corner of the Restricted Section.

Upon reaching the desk, he carefully places down the maroon tome he was holding, before quickly plopping on the chair beside the table. He slumps forward to resume his avid reading, taking in information and turning the pages in the speed not unlike that of a man quenching his decade-long thirst.

His dark, almost black, wavy hair fall neatly to the side, a few short stray strands brushing the top of his black-rimmed eyeglasses. His pert nose scrunches up to hold in a sneeze, before relaxing a few seconds later. High, pale cheekbones were hidden behind his box-shaped glasses, as with his eyes, which look more than minutely minimized on his oval face.

A pink tongue darts out to lick his dry, slightly chapped lips. A large yawn suddenly breaks out of his small mouth, making Tom realize the lateness of the night—or rather, early morning. As if to confirm his thoughts, the large, muggle grandfather's clock in the room chimes four times, its chilling sound resonating within the walls of the empty library.

Headmaster Dumbledore had accepted his request for shelter in Hogwarts during the summer vacation up till the start of classes on September. Wool's Orphanage had no longer been capable of taking care of a hundred or so children, with little funds to keep it running under the present, corrupt government. And so, Tom had little choice but to stay at Hogwarts after his fifth year had ended. Not that he minded.

In fact, he was more than a little happy to have the library to himself, with no interruptions at all, barring sleeping, eating, and bathing. And reporting to the old Headmaster every morning to inform the man of his continued existence. The eccentric wizard had given him permission to scour through the books in the Restricted Section, much to Tom's subdued elation. He was known as Slytherin's unSlytherin [among other, ah, _endearing_ names], what with his more Raven-blue tendencies. The reputation, although unwanted, certainly pays off. The senile man had given him such an unlauded privilege [perhaps because he cannot bother himself to entertain Tom for the long months], one that hasn't, as far as Tom knows, been given to a Slytherin in such a long time, much less the rest of the Hogwarts' Houses.

After all, what harm can he do?


End file.
